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In my house,art was for the primed, the disciplined,those who called themselves artists​and displayed works of grandeur.I once tried to draw a tulip,a lonely, red, tulip in a brown, clay pot,my drawing shoved aside in a drawer.Monster minateurs, saving art for the very bestto be kept in a cage of perfection.And I wonderedif they ever started offdrawing rudimentary tulips in clay pots.Art is for the 3-dimensional they always told meSo I forgot about art.Forgot how to access it and went offand found new hobbies to amuse myself with.

Last summer, at the age of 35, I picked up a penand found myself doodling on a napkinI peered back at the nonsensical shapes and linesand had a glimmer of recognition“Is this art? Am I doing art?” I said.Suddenly, the world opened and endless possibilitiesabounded.